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THE VAkLEY OF UNREST 

H Booh Without a Woman 






an 016 066tt? paper, E6ite6 65 

Douglass Shorten 


c* coy,^. 

V 1 M 


3obn fl>. flDorton anfc Company 

^mpritumj, Xouifuillc, fhj. 

1883 




1883. 

Coppilobtefc 
36\> DouGlase Sberlep. 


^ BOOk^ VITh|oJT V/OM|A|\l 
[Dedicated TO A WOMAN 



















| HIS book does not begin with an apology for 

its appearance. I, the editor, have none to 
offer. But it begins inftead with what I am 
fure will be an unfatiffa&ory ftatement. I 
have neither the right nor the inclination to 
make public the knowledge which, by a mere 
accident, I chance to poflefs, concerning the 
author of the following pages. 

This much I feel at liberty to ftate: He was 
well born, well reared, eccentric. He pafled 
through life bearing the burden of fome particu- 
lar grievance of which the world did not know. 
His education was of his own curious making. 
His writings, a trifle weird, bear more plainly 
the marks of a peculiar originality than they do 
of erudition. 

H e was the only fon, the hope and the pride 
of a proud man full of bitternefs and world- 
hate. Between this father and child there was 
but little love, and abfolutely no fympathy. A 
roving fpirit early developed, and a fondnefs 
for ftudying human nature direct , rather than 
through the oftentimes more tedious medium 
of books, foon diflipated the hope, and foon 

broke 










































broke the pride of this over-ambitious and too 
exading father. Young, erratic, with only the 
uncertain memory of a good mother, long dead, 
to keep him pure — without guile — he drifted 
beyond the line that fharply defines the differ- 
ence between the right and the wrong. 

Then there came a time when he was allowed 
to gratify the one pafiionate defire of his early 
youth — travel, travel, conftant, world -wide 
travel. Thofe many years of reftlefs wander- 
ing gained for him a unique and rich experi- 
ence. Fortunate, indeed, were thofe who 
liftened to his talk. He was a fanciful, mag- 
netic man, full of flrange conceits. He was a 
tragedy. His life was a rugged, tragic poem. 

One ad of his full-primed manhood — rare, 
brilliant — brought him the applaufe of an 
hour. Yet it was an ad fo rare, fo brilliant, 
that it deferved better things. If I could 
mention his name, there are thofe now living 
who would recall to mind the matter and the 
man. Later on in life, embittered, fcorned 
by thofe who by nature and by right ought to 
have been every thing to him, he committed 


an 



an awful crime. Each detail thereof was 
coldly, calculatingly planned. And each detail 
was even more coldly, more calculatingly exe- 
cuted. But it was a crime with the criminal 
unknown. That guilty one, now dead, fpeaks 
to thofe who may liften from the printed pages 
of this book. But thefe pages tell the tale of 
other people’s lives, and not of his own. They 
tell fomething of that ftrange man, Edgar Allan 
Poe, who was an intimate college friend. They 
tell fomething that may chance to lend a frefh 
intereft and a new charm to the always inter- 
efting and to the always charming ftudy of — to 
quote from the following pages — That myf- 
terious human fantafy. 


Autumn, 1883. 


The Editor. 






















W HATEVER an idle fancy may chance 
to term this Dailey of ‘Wnrest, it is woven, 
as may be feen, in and around about a poem, 
a mere fragment, feldom read, written by Edgar 
Allan Poe. 

Dailey of ^Unrest is the name of the 
poem, and ZTbe Dailey of TUnrest is the name 
of the book. 

It is a book without a woman. She does not 
find her fubtle accuftomed place in this valley 
of unreft. She feems to be abfent in both the 
body and the fpirit. It is an Eden without an 
Eve: but it is not a paradife without a ferpent. 

Harmony long ago fled the bounds of this 
ftrange unhappy valley, but fhe was not driven 
forth by woman. 

Difcord in greedy hafte found a foothold in 
the dell, once a land of fweet and quiet reft. 
But difcord was not brought thereto by wo- 
man’s call or by woman’s art. 

Now, let the Valley of Unreft and the 
dwellers therein fpeak for themfelves. 

Douglass Sherley. 

'gSi&fitttttner, 1883. 





[be poem — 


O NCE it fmiled a fllent dell 

Where the people did not dwell; 

They had gone unto the wars, 

Trufting to the mild-eyed ftars, 

Nightly, from their azure towers, 

To keep watch above the flowers, 

In the midft of which all day 
The red funlight lazily lay. 

Now each vifltor fhall confefs 
The fad valley’s reftleffnefs. 

Nothing there is motionlefs — 

Nothing fave the airs that brood 
Over the magic folitude. 

Ah, by no wind are ftirred thofe trees 
That palpitate like the chill feas 
Around the mifty Hebrides! 

Ah, by no wind thofe clouds are driven 
That ruftle through the unquiet Heaven 
Uneaflly, from morn till even, 

Over the violets there that lie 
In myriad types of the human eye — 
Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs gravel 
They wave: — from out their fragrant tops 
Eternal dews come down in drops. 

They weep: — from off their delicate ftems 
Perennial tears defcend in gems. 


^HERE are moments in the lives of all men 

when the fragrance of fome one flower, or 
the brief fnatch of fome favorite love-fong, or 
the found of fome familiar voice, will inftantly 
charm the mind with a ftrange and fubtle 
witchery. 

Myfterious moments, that bring back again 
the banifhed or forgotten things. Peculiar 
aflociation of ideas that reproduce the once 
vivid pi&ures which have vanifhed from the 
canvas of life. 

So it was to-night. 

Here, in my den of old oddities, nothing 
pleafed me. I put aflde the yellow fheets of a 
German manufcript, a curious mafs of erudition. 
It had failed to furnifh a folace to my lonely 
hour. I was poflefled by a fpirit of reftleff- 
nefs. I pafled over to the fquare hole under the 
deep flanting eaves that anfwers the purpofe of 
a window. I thruft back the darkened un- 
painted fhutter. It creaked difmally on its 
one rufty hinge. I looked out into the black- 
nefs of the night. A fnow ftorm was raging. 

I could feel the foft white flakes falling 



againft my withered face. And I thought of 
the fnow ftorm of life that was beating in upon 
my full wintered years. 

From below, far down the turn of the road, 
there came a found of many voices, and the 
mulical ring of jingling fleigh-bells, and then 
all was lilent. 

That was hours ago, early in the night. Yet 
the found of thofe merry unknown voices, and 
the jingle of thofe muiical bells have fomehow, 
by the charm of that ftrange fubtle witchery, 
brought back from out of the paft a myfteri- 
ous human fantafy, which in thofe other and 
far-off years gave a coloring to my life that has 
not faded out, and never will. 

A GLANCE, a hand-clafp, and a word. Three 
potent fa&ors that won my home -lick 
heart, on the afternoon of my lirft day at the 
Virginia Univerlity. Edgar Allan Poe was the 
winner thereof. I had ftood aloof, a lonely 
fixteen- year -old boy, on the outer edge of 
an unfympathetic crowd. His eye met mine. 

He 



He came forward, offered me his hand, and 
faid, “I like you. I want to know you.” From 
that moment dated our friendfhip. From that 
day I was recognized as the moft intimate 
friend of Poe while he remained at the Uni- 
verfity. 

Now, in truth, he was indeed a myfterious 
human fantafy. 

To-day, even after all thefe years of diligent 
inveftigation, there is fo little a&ually known 
of the inner life of this ftrange man. 

Several periods bear fo heavy a mift of un- 
certainty and falfe report that we are forced 
to content ourfelves with the bareft outline. 

Somewhere there is told a legend of a man, 
who did for fake of gold fell his fhadow. But 
this, our human fantafy, muft have parted with 
his fubftance, and paffed through life only a 
fhadow in dalliance with an immortal foul. 

In that part fanciful, part biographical fketch 
of his own life, “ William Wilfon,” thus does 
he fpeak of thofe years fpent in the Manor- 
Houfe School at Stoke Newington, England: 
“My earlieft recollections of a fchool are con- 
nected 
























nedted with a large, rambling Elizabethan houfe 
in a mifty looking village of England, where 
were a vaft number of gigantic and knarled 
trees, and where all the houfes were exceSfively 
ancient. 

“In truth it was a dream-like and fpirit- 
foothing place, that venerable old town. 

“At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refresh- 
ing chillinefs of its deeply Shadowed avenues, 
inhale the fragrance of its thoufand Shrubberies, 
and thrill anew with indefinable delight at 
the deep hollow note of the church bell, break- 
ing each hour with fudden and fullen roar upon 
the ftillnefs of the dulky atmofphere in which 
the fretted Gothic fteeple lay embedded and 
afieep.” 

Many a time, while we walked arm and arm 
beneath thofe now crumbling arcades at the 
Virginia Univerfity, Poe has talked by the hour 
of that old Manor-Houfe School, long before 
he had even thought of formulating William 
Wilfon. He would often thrill my boyifh fancy 
with his world of romance and dreams with- 
out wakenings. The other day, a lengthening 

ftreet 






































& 



























ftreet of the Englifh metropolis ftretched itfelf 
over the leveled ruins of that ancient Manor 
Houfe. 

His life at the Univerhty has always been 
buried deep in a mafs of obfcurity. Much 
has been written about him, but little has been 
written and lefs is known about his Univerhty 
career. 

With this one period of his life I am famil- 
iar, for he was then my only friend, and I 
knew him well. 


N OW in thofe days a fpirit of dilhpation pre- 
vailed among the ftudents of the Univer- 
lity. While men like unto GelTner Harrifon, 
Henry Tutwiler, and Phil. Cocke abftained from 
the midnight revel and ftri&ly obeyed each ob- 
ligation placed upon them by the faculty, we, a 
gay rollicking fet, with Poe for our leader, were 
much given to a non-attendance at the daily 
ledture, and to a freedom from all regulations 
and reftraints impofed by thofe high in au- 




( 



thority. Yet fomehow we managed to fpend 
a large portion of our time in the Univerfity 
library; feated fide by fide, in one of thofe 
curious and now mufty alcoves, we read the 
hiftories of Lingard and Hume. 

Poe was paflionately fond of French litera- 
ture. Often have I made paufe in my own 
reading and liftened to his mufically whifpered 
tranflation from fome old French play, until 
Wertenbaker, the ancient librarian appointed 
by Jefferfon, and who died only a little while 
ago, would place a warning finger on his clofed 
lips. Of late years I have often made fearch 
for thofe particular paffages in the old French 
dramas; but I have not found them. And 
now this is my thought: he would more fre- 
quently weave the alleged tranflation from his 
own imaginative brain than from the printed 
page; for he knew that my knowledge of 
French was limited, and that I would not be 
able to difcover the charming fraud. The 
French drama is an old and pleafant ftory to 
me now. But it has never yielded the pleaf- 
ure found in that library alcove, liftening to 

thofe 










I 









thofe fraudulent tranflations, dreading the ap- 
proach of Wertenbaker bidding us to be filent 
or leave the library. 

We were familiar with the whole field of 
Englifh poetry from Chaucer to Scott. There 
was not a pafiage of fingular beauty in either 
that Poe could not inftantly recall. And fo it 
was with intermediate writers. He declared 
Shakefpere to be a magnificent whirlpool, into 
which he conftantly defired to fling away the 
beft that was in him. Once he faid to me, 
“ Shakefpere fafcinates me with an evil fafci- 
nation. He ftirs up within me the demon-fide 
of my nature. I have for him a paflionate 
love-hate.” 

Halcyon indeed were thofe days of my 
youth, when Poe was my friend, aye, the 
other half of my foul. Ah, there is a grim 
philofophy in the old faying, that we are never 
young but once! 

Thofe weird tales and mufical poems of the 
after years are but the crystallization of his 
thoughts and his fancies which so often found 
an echo in my heart, or that made echo up 

and 



and down ZTbe Dailey of 'Wnrest that lies buried 
deep in the Ragged Mountains of Virginia. 

My Lord Beacon field’s portraiture of his 
remarkable father, Ifaac Difraeli, bears a ftrong 
likenefs to young Poe, “ indicating by the 
whole carriage of his life that he was of a 
different order from thofe among whom he 
lived; timid, fufceptible, loft in revery, fond 
of folitude, or feeking no better company than 
a book, the years had ftolen on till he had 
arrived at that mournful period of boyhood 
when eccentricities excite attention and command 
no fympathyT 

Poe, unlike Ifaac Difraeli, could at times 
completely yield himfelf to the gay compan- 
ionfiiip of recklefs young fellows. But down 
in his heart he cared nothing for that wild dif- 
fipation that fo often characterized his aCtions. 
It was but an outer mafk to hide his inner fell; 
it was but an effort, an unfuccefiTul effort, to 
make himfelf like unto others. Eccentricity 
is often a curfe, and always a crime — a crime 
perpetrated againft the ignorance of willfully 
common-place people; people who live accord- 
ing 



ing to rule; people who eredt a ftandard, and 
who would have all live up, or rather down to it, 
and woe unto the man who departs therefrom. 

Edgar Allan Poe, when firft I knew him, was 
feventeen years of age, rather fhort of ftature, 
thick, and fomewhat compadly fet. He was 
ftrong of arm and fwift of foot — for he was 
an expert in athletic and gymnaftic arts. A 
more beautiful face on man or woman I have 
never feen. It was the beauty of the foul, 
always near the furface, always in a glow of 
ftrange, unearthly paffion. His walk was rapid, 
and his movement quick and nervous. He had 
about him the air of a native-born Frenchman, 
and a mercurial difpofition delicioully unftable. 
He was fond of cards. Seven-up and loo were 
his favorite games. He played like a mad-man. 
He drank like a mad-man. He did both 
under a fudden impulfe. Something always 
feemed to drive him on. Unfeen forces played 
havoc with his reafon. He would feize the 
glafs that he a&ually loathed, yet always feemed 
to love, and without the leaft apparent pleafure 
fwallow the contents, quickly draining the laft 



drop. One glafs, and his whole nervous nature 
ran riot within its highly tortured felf. Then 
followed a flow of wild talk which enchained 
' each fortunate liftener with a fyren-like power. 

It is curious to follow the fubfequent lives 
of thofe men who were his conftant compan- 
ions around the card-table, and who filled, from 
out of the fame punch-bowl, their never-empty 
glafies with the fame peach and honey . 

Peach and honey , that drink once fo popular, 
long years ago, with the Virginia and Carolina 
gentlemen of the old fchool. 

There was Thomas S. Gholfon, and of all the 
fet there was not one more recklefs. He was 
afterward a pious judge of fome diftindion and 
of great integrity. 

Upton Beale, who always held the winning 
card, became an Epifcopal minifter. He was 
ftationed for years, in fad until his death, at 
Norfolk, Virginia, and he was beloved by the 
people of his parifh. 

Philip Slaughter, Poe’s moft intimate card- 
friend y is ftill living. He, too, a minifter of 
the gofpel. I am told that he is an excellent 

God- 



God-fearing man. I wonder if he remembers 
thofe wayward days of his youth, when he and 
Poe were partners at cards, and held between 
them a common treafury? 

I have loft fight of Nat. Dunn and Wm. A. 
Creighton. In all likelihood they have gone 
unto that other land. 

Billie Burwell, a rare genius of that old fet, 
has fuffered many changes of fortune. He is 
neither judge nor minifter; unlike the reft, he 
has never been able to finifh fowing his wild 
oats. When laft I heard of him he was living 
in New Orleans. He was ftill afliduoufly cul- 
tivating the refined fociety of kings and queens, 
and he was ftill a large dealer in diamonds and 
clubs. And there was yet another one, Thos. 
Goode Tucker, of North Carolina. He was a 
great-hearted fellow. He was handfome, bold, 
and recklefs. He was a warm friend and a 
bitter enemy, and he was paflionately devoted 
to young Poe. This fame Tucker was a great 
fox hunter. Poe and he were the conftant 
terror of that Piedmont country. Whenever 
the farmers of Albemarle found their fences 

down, 


# 



down, their fields of fmall grain trampled and 
all but ruined, they would roundly fwear thofe 
infernal young rafcals — Poe and Tucker — were 
the guilty ones, out on the chafe again. And 
thofe farmers were right. 

Tucker is now, like unto myfelf, an old man; 
yet he wrote me the other day, “ Come, and 
with me, for the fake of thofe old times, let us 
follow the hounds once more.” 

A ftrong, linked intimacy exifted between 
Tucker and Poe. Tucker was not only in- 
timate with the diflipated fide of his nature, 
but with that other and better fide known to 
only a few, principally women. It was a fide 
which good and pure women were fo fure to 
find out, appreciate, and defend, when others 
were fo ready to blame. Whatever Poe may 
have been in after years, he was, when I knew 
him at the Univerfity of Virginia, as honeft a 
friend as the fometimes waywardnefs of his 
otherwife noble nature would allow. There 
was then not the leaft touch of infincerity, and 
never the flighteft indication of that malicioufly 
fickle difpofition which in after times was fo 

often 













often brought up againft him in life, and againft 
his memory in death. 

Marked peculiarities do not elicit fympathy 
from the common run of people — the great 
majority. They place the unhappy polTedbr 
in a moft undefirable polition. Mifunder- 
ftandings conftantly arife, and they can not 
often be explained, even if explanation be 
fought. Therefore it is not a matter of much 
furprife that Edgar Poe did not have many in- 
timate friends. For he was indeed, even when 
I knew him — a mere boy — a man of ftrongly 
marked peculiarities. Thefe peculiarities con- 
ftantly led him into trouble. He made enemies 
out of thofe who fhould have been his friends. 
And of this he was more oftentimes unaware. 
For his enemies at the Univerlity were of that 
moft dangerous, moft contemptible order — 
fecret enemies — fellows ready to give the ftab 
from behind, and under cover of darknefs. A 
band of envious cowards outlkirt the ways of 
all fuch men as Poe. And always muft eccen- 
tric greatnefs pay a penalty; nay, not one, but 
numberlefs ones to the clamoring, common- 
place fool and the hlent, envious knave. 


Yet 



Yet Poe was a power when he cared to try his 
ftrength. He was full of adaptability. He 
could play cards and drink peach and honey 
hour after hour, and day in and day out, with 
thofe who merely chanced to be thrown in his 
way. But a genuine friendfhip afks for fome- 
thing more and better than ordinary convivi- 
ality and a fhuffling, each in turn, the fame 
pack of cards. Other ties than thofe muft be 
found to bring two fouls together in a life-long 
attachment. 

There was a curious magnetic fympathy exift- 
ing not only between our hearts but even 
between our minds. In the filent watches of 
the night I have often clofed the book before 
me, no matter how interefting, rifen from my 
feat and, moving under the guidance of an ir- 
rehftible impulfe, gone out beneath the arcade, 
fo full of ftrange fhadows, and ftarted toward 
the room near by, occupied by Poe, and have 
met him in his own doorway, coming to me, 
actuated by the fame irrefiftihle impulfe . Not 
once, twice, or thrice, but again and again has 
this happened. And often in thofe filent 

watches 


























watches of the night did he read to me the early 
productions of his youth. They were not pub- 
lifhed — not one of them — becaufe unfpared by 
his critical hand. His lenfitive nature often- 
times made him a ruthlefs deftroyer of much 
that was good. He could not brook the idle, 
laughing cenfure of his comrades. On feveral 
occafions I perfuaded him to give his own fmall 
circle of intimate friends the rare privilege of 
liftening to him read his own weird writings. 

Thofe men — now all dead but Tucker and 
myfelf — who were fo fortunate as to hear thofe 
impromptu readings could never forget them. 
In their old age their firefide ftories were all 
the better for that memory. From out of the 
paft, clear and ftrongly outlined, rife thofe 
readings. It is the memory of one efpecial 
night. The hour is late — after twelve. On 
Weft Range one midnight lamp is burning. 
It is in the room of Edgar Allan Poe — No. 13. 
Our fmall circle is complete. By accident we 
have gathered there. It is a rare meeting, un- 
marred by the prefence of uncongenial fouls. 
Each a kindred fpirit, each in fympathy with 

the 





















the other. There is a fhort, imprefiive filence. 
Then, fpell-bound, barely breathing, we liften 
to a ftory, weird and wonderfully ftrange, which 
Poe has juft written — the ink not yet dry on 
the laft page. 

He reads with his whole foul thrown into every 
a&ion and into each mufical intonation of his 
well-toned voice. Now loud and rapid, like 
the mad rufh of many waters; now low and 
flow, like the trickling of a ftream in a hollow 
cavern. Then finking into a whifpered fen- 
tence of incantations and mad curfes; then 
into a foftly murmured, yet pafiionate vow of 
fome ardent, hopelefs lover, and — the ftory is 
told, the reading over. Ah, it was indeed a 
privilege to be there! 

Once he wrote and read to us a long ftory 
full of quaint humor. Unlike the moft of his 
ftories, it was free from that ufual fomber col- 
oring and thofe fad conclufions merged in a 
mift of impenetrable gloom that we fo often 
find in his publifhed writings. In a fpirit of 
idle jeft and not of adverfe criticifm, fome 
one of our number fpoke lightly of the ftory. 

This 



This produced within him a fit of nervous 
anger, and he flung every fheet behind the 
blaze on his hearth. And thus was loft a ftory 
of excellent parts. “Gafly,” the name of his 
hero, furnifhed a name for the ftory. He was 
often thereafter good humoredly called “ Gafly” 
Poe, which was a name that he did not like. 

N OW, in thofe early days of the Univerfity 
of Virginia, a pernicious pra&ice prevailed 
among the ftudents at large. It was gambling 
at cards and for money. This vice was then 
prevalent among the beft of Southern people. 
But Thomas Jefferfon did not propofe to 
tolerate its dangerous prefence in his well- 
planned inftitution of learning. He found 
that it needed a fpeedy and effe&ual check. 
This, the year before his death, he promptly 
attempted to give; and while he may not have 
been entirely fucceflTul, yet, as one of the re- 
fults of that effort, we were driven into ftbe 
Dailey of IUnrest which lies hidden in the wood- 
ed heart of the Ragged Mountains. 

Mr. Jefferfon, 



Mr. Jefferfon, after much anxious deliberation 
with the Univerhty Board of Directors and 
others, decided upon a plan to eradicate the 
baleful habit of playing cards for fake of gold 
and diver coin. He confulted with the civil 
authorities. He found out the names of the 
moft noted young gamblers, and he gave in- 
ftrudtions that they fhould be indidted in due 
form and brought before the next grand jury. 
So, one bright morning in early fpring, the 
fheriff, with a goodly poffe, fuddenly appeared 
within the doorway of our ledture-room dur- 
ing the Latin hour. The ftaid old profeffor 
was calling the roll. That fervant of the law 
ftood in readinefs to ferve his writs on certain 
ones as the profeffor fhould mention the names 
of each guilty party. But gay young rafcals 
are not to be fo ealily enfnared within the toils 
of the eager enemy. We needed no word of 
warning. The fhadow acrofs the doorway, and 
a gang of men behind, told its own ftory. 
With Edgar Allan Poe for our leader, we fcat- 
tered in every direction — fome through the 
window, and fome through an oppohte door. 

Sheriff, 



Sheriff, poffe, and profeffor were left in full 
poffeffion of the le&ure-room. Once on the 
outfide, under the guidance of Poe — our maf- 
ter fpirit in all times of danger — we marfhaled 
our fcattered forces. Then, the hot purfuit. 
But thofe whom they wanted the moft, the 
ringleaders — our own fet — had made a fucceff- 
ful efcape, not to our rooms, for there we 
would not have been fafe, but off to the wild, 
Ragged Mountains, a jagged fpur of the Blue 
Ridge, over an almoft untrodden path. 

But it was a hidden way well known to Poe, 
over which, always alone, he had often traveled. 
With ruling paflion, ftrong even in hafty flight, 
fome of the party had managed to arm them- 
felves with a deck of cards and a goodly por- 
tion of peach and honey . This, in order that 
the hours of our felf-impofed banifhment might 
not hang heavy upon our idle hands. 

O UR place of concealment was tTb c Tllalle^ of 
“Unrest. It was a beautiful dell, high up in 
the mountains, almoft inacceffible, and far away 

from 


f- 


from the beaten path. It was the favorite haunt 
of Edgar Allan Poe. When almoft overpow- 
ered by thofe ftrange fpells of mental depref- 
fion, approaching near unto the border-land 
of infanity, thither would he go, and alone. 
There for hours he would often linger, buried 
deep in the bitter-fweets of melancholy; and 
there, environed by low-fweeping pines, mur- 
muring perpetual dirges, his a&ive brain be- 
came ftrongly imbued with thofe wild, fanciful 
ideas which are fo realiftic even in their un- 
reality; for, out of the dark -green, needle- 
pointed foliage of thofe low-fweeping pines 
there forever actually feemed to ooze a dreary 
fombernefs that permeated all the atmofphere 
with a gloom which hung like an uncanny 
mift over the beautiful dell. 

It was a myfterious place. Something feemed 
to hufh our voices and to muffle each footfall. 
If the fpirit of adventure had not within each 
one of us been driven up to fever heat by the 
excitement of the moment, there could have 
been no human power able to detain us in that 
place of myftery. Surely it was this haunt of 

his 


his youth that Poe did in after years fo cun- 
ningly pi&ure in exquifite verfe, and fittingly 
termed £be IDallep of 'Wnrest, 

It muft indeed be true that Poe was filled with 
the memory of that lonely dell, which lies fo 
deeply buried in the great wooded heart of the 
Ragged Mountains, when he wrote that beau- 
tiful poem. And in that lonely dell, for the 
better part of three days and nights, we did 
conceal ourfelves from the fearch of the fheriff 
and his poffe in that long ago fpringtime. 

Each day it was our cuftom to play cards and 
drink peach and honey . Each night we would 
light our torches, kindle a fire of pine fagots 
to difpel the chill night airs of early fpring, 
then each in turn tell his ftory. After mid- 
night we would go in fingle file and in filence 
down the mountain fide. On the outfkirts 
of the Univerfity we would find a little knot 
of anxious friends ready to fupply us with pro- 
visions and peach and honey . 

Before the coming of the dawn we would find 
ourfelves back again within the Shadows of 
that lonely dell, Gbe THaUes of Ulnrest. 


Two 



Two lines that occur in the poem — 

“Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave ’ — {a) 

were uttered by Edgar Allan Poe while he told 
his ftory on the laft night of our banifhment in 
the Ragged Mountains; and it was the laft 
ftory told on that night. Each time Poe’s tale 
was the laft; and while he talked we would 
forget to replenifh the fire, forget every thing 
but the intricate plot which he might chance 
to unroll before us. When he finifhed we 
would, fhivering, rife to our feet, and haftily 
depart from the fpot and pafs away from under 
its uncanny fhadows, but not from the memory 
thereof. All of thefe years have not brought 
me a forgetfulnefs of thofe fpringtime nights 
and of that one laft night. 

On the afternoon of the third day the glad 
news came that we had been forgiven. Poe, 
our ringleader, was the only unhappy one of 
the party. He thought it fo tame an ending 
to our flight, he was half unwilling to return 
again. That afternoon and night he was ex- 
ceedingly gloomy and held aloof. 

(a) g>ee S6e 12?oetJi. 


For 



For the laft time we lighted the torches and 
kindled the fire; for the laft time we, each in 
turn, told our ftories. Poe alone had not 
fpoken. We had left him to himfelf. Thomas 
Goode Tucker had juft finifhed a tale of a 
fweet and tender nature. The old ftory of two 
lovers — a grievous mifunderftanding, a cruel 
feparation, a happy reconciliation. It was a 
reftful bit of human nature, a trifle common- 
place, but fo reftfully, charmingly told as to 
gain a forgivenefs for its evident touch of every- 
day life. During the little paufe that follows 
the telling of any good ftory, Poe, ftill full of 
gloom, ftrode in from out of the fhadows and 
flood in our midft with folded arms, and told 
his ftory. 

To-night the recollection of thofe burning 
words, flow and diflindtly uttered, rife before 
me in all of their original frefhnefs and in all 
of their original horror. On the day after, I 
alone of that little party exprefled a willingnefs 
to return fome day to that fpot in the Rag- 
ged Mountains where we had liftened to that 
ftrange ftory, fo wonderfully and ftrangely told. 

His 




His firft words, delivered in a flow, monoto- 
nous tone, were thofe myfterious lines found 
in the poem — 

“Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave? 

He paufed, then pointed to a little clump of 
early fpring lilies. They were juft coming 
into bloom. They were growing into beauty 
beneath the fhadows of a large hemlock, on 
the inner edge of the firelight glow, plainly in 
the fight of all. Somehow, inftantaneoufly, 
came the thought to each one of us, how like 
a grave-mound thofe cluftered lilies had fhaped 
themfelves as they grew. 

“No; you are wrong,” he faid, feeming to di- 
vine our very thought; “the fhape of yonder 
bed of fair lilies is but a forefhadowing of a 
grave yet to be there — a grave that fhall be 
forever namelefs . No one now lies beneath the 
purity of thofe blofloms. Their fragrance and 
their lovelinefs are not ftolen from any human 
mold flowly decaying beneath the dark, rich 
foil. Out in the blacknefs of the night, beyond 
the flare of your torch and the light of your 

fire, 




fire, a company of ill-boding fpirits have gath- 
ered. In their center three Demons of the 
Darknefs. They are dancing. It is the Death- 
Dance. They ftop. And now they are, each 
in turn, whifpering to me. But you can nei- 
ther hear nor fee them. As they whifper to 
me I will repeat the words to you.” 

Bending forward in the attitude of an eager 
liftener, and as if ftraining to catch the words 
of fome one whifpering, Poe flowly uttered 
the ftrange fentences of his wild ftory. The 
deception — if deception it was — was indeed 
moft perfect. Each one of our number was 
ready to believe that Poe was adtually hearing 
and repeating words fpoken to him by fome 
invifible perfon. The adtion was fo wonder- 
fully natural that it created the moft abforbing 
intereft, and had upon us all the moft ftartling 
effedt. For a brief while I could fcarcely be- 
lieve my own identity. It was, in truth, fome 
time before I could rid myfelf of the impref- 
fion that Poe was in a&ual and diredl commu- 
nication with evil fpirits. Tucker afterwards 
told me that feveral members of the party — 

otherwife 


otherwife fenfible fellows — were never able 
entirely to rid themfelves of this impreflion. 

It is ufelefs to even attempt a reprodu&ion of 
that ftory. The bare outline — at beft feeble — 
is all that I dare truft myfelf to give. Thofe 
three Demons are fuppofed to be the narrators, 
ufing Poe as a mouthpiece. Confequently the 
ftory is divided into three parts. 


I. 

Two young men ftart out in life together. 
They have been unto one another more like 
brothers than like friends. Their hearts are 
drawn together by the tendereft ties that can 
bind two unfelfifh fouls. Manhood finds them 
living a peaceful, harmonious life. Thus far 
without the fhadows. But a curfe yet unful- 
filled hangs over them — fome iniquity of the 
fathers that muft be vifited on the children of 
the third and fourth generation. 

Difcord, and then the horrors of civil war in- 
vade the peaceful land. The execution of the 
curfe is near. There is a great iflue at ftake, 

and 

















and thofe young men differ about the merits 
of the caufe. It is their firft difference. They 
go on the battle-field and on oppofite fides. 
In an evil hour, in the bitternefs of a hand-to- 
hand conflict, they meet, each unknown to the 
other. Their weapons crofs, a deadly thruft, 
and one lies dying. Then the cruel agony of 
a too-late recognition. While the dying man 
breathes away his life, young, and fo like a 
flower, on the bofom of his comrade, full of 
wretchednefs, a voice: — “ Your foul has expiated 
the curfe of your race; peace abide with you.” 
H e is dead. But other voices, harfh and pen- 
etrating, ring out upon the ear of the grief- 
ftricken furvivor, “ Your curfe has barely begun 
its baleful courfe; you are to go about the 
world a homelefs, friendlefs wanderer; and 
when the end does come, you are to lie in a 
grave forever namelefs .” 


II. 

A ftorm. Night falls about, drawn on before 
its time. Out of the darknefs of a diftant val- 















< 















ley a man full of years toils up the mountain 
hde. But a human fhadow. He trembles 
with fatigue and fright. The ftorm fweeps 
along the mountain. He feeks protection from 
its raging, unpent fury beneath the branches of 
a wide-fpreading hemlock. It is where you are 
feated to-night. Years hence will mark his 
coming to this lonely dell in the heart of the 
Ragged Mountains. The fhadows will fteal 
away his power of adtion, and the fhadows will 
clofe in and around about him, and from this 
fpot he will not again depart. 


III. 

This human fhadow, fhut in by a troop of 
Demon -fent fhadows, labors day by day at 
fome myfterious talk. Never man worked at 
fo ftrange a labor. It is the flow making of a 
g rave — and his own . Day after day the work 
goes on. Then there comes a paufe. His la- 
bors are ended. And there, at the foot of a 
beautiful bed of lilies, an open grave. And 


now 



















now he fleeps in that grave, made by the pain- 
ful toil of his own weak and fhriveled hands. 

Said Edgar Allan Poe, in conclufion, “The 
fitfulnefs of his life goes out into a perpetual 
darknefs. The Angel of Death forever calms 
the troubled heart. And in thofe days when 
my three now powerful Demons fhall have loft 
their high and moft evil eftate, and when other 
and better fpirits fhall have gathered here to 
hold high carnival in their ftead, then the fong 
of the midnight elfin fhall be — 

‘Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave' ” 


H IS ftory was ended. Thofe laft words were 
faid in a whifper. Then there was a long 
and painful filence. Not a word, not a move- 
ment, only the crackling found of pine fagots 
almoft burned out. We made effort to fhake 
off the gloom fettling down upon us. It was 
ufelefs. Then we were ftartled to our feet by 
the found of a retreating footfall. It came from 

the 



the tangled mountain growth that enclofed our 
open fpace around the camp-fire. 

Poe, with a wild exprefiion on his face, lighted 
by the glare of torch and fire, ftood ered in 
our midft. With a mocking laugh that chilled 
every heart, he made this cry: — “Be ftill, my 
brave comrades; it is only the retreating foot- 
fall of my laft Demon. He is gone! Come, 
fcatter the dying embers. Bid farewell to our 
fafe retreat. Now let us go, and in peace, 
down the mountain fide, and again return to 
the Univerfity.” 

It is indeed a myftery how, on that night, we 
reached our deferted rooms; for it was the 
darkeft night that I have ever known. And 
our fouls too were filled with darknefs — a troop 
of grim terrors. Prefent in every mind the 
pidure of that namelefs grave . It was a pid- 
ure with a ghoulifh background of human 
Shadows and Death-Dancing Demons. 

Now this which I have told is the bare outline — 
an incomplete fynopfis — of that ftrange tale. It 
would take the touch of a mafter hand to ren- 
der full juftice to a ftory told by that mafter 
fpirit, Edgar Allan Poe. The 



The days which followed thereafter almoft 
drifted us into the belief that we had fome- 
where and fomehow dreamed away the period 
of our hiding in the Ragged Mountains — a de- 
licious (lumber ruffled by the ffladowy prefence 
of a whifpering phantom and a namelefs grave — 
yet to be — far up in the wooded heart of that 
fpur of the Blue Ridge. 

The following December ended my term and 
my ftay at the Virginia Univerfity. Poe left 
at the fame time. Our lines of life ftretched 
out in directions widely different, and they 
never croffed again. Our old friendfhip was 
never renewed. But our parting that Decem- 
ber night was exceeding fad, full of tendernefs, 
and — pardon the weaknefs, for we were hardly 
more than boys — tears, hot, impulfive tears of 
deep regret. “I will never fee you again,” he 
faid. His words were indeed prophetic. And 

perhaps it was better fo, yet But no; I 

will leave untold that which would only grat- 
ify an idle curiolity and open to public gaze 
an unfufpe&ed heart-wound. 


There 









- f . t 

























* 





















T HERE is a fequel to that ftory of the name - 
left grave, as it was told to us by the boy 
Poe on that fpring-time night in £be of 

Tflnreot. 

About five years ago, after a long period of 
wandering in many ftrange and out-of-the-way 
places, I found myfelf in an old Italian town. 
There was a charm about the place. It was 
ancient, crude, and interefting. To gratify an 
idle fancy — a mere whim — I had taken for the 
winter an old Ducal Palace, long ago given 
over to the chance tenant and — ruin. 

There came a holiday; then a night of the 
Carnival. I ftood on the carved ftone balcony 
of my own Ducal Palace and watched the mot- 
ley throng palling down the crowded ftreet. 
They pelted me where I ftood, and laughed to 
fee a face fo full of fober thought in fo gay a 
time. 

Something — perhaps the odor of fome flower, 
or, as it was to-night, the found of fome voice, 
rich, fuggeftive — fomething brought the defire 
to come back again to this, my native land. It 
had been for me the fcene of much unhappi- 

nefs, 











/ 














nefs, but a new generation of hafte-lovers had 
rifen, and I thought to go again to the home 
of my fathers. Vacant all the reft of that win- 
ter was my Ducal Palace. And the people faid 
that I was driven out by the ill-refting fpirit of 
fome Duke foully murdered in the long ago. 
So I left that uneafy Shade in full pofteftion of 
that Ducal Palace, rich in tarnifhed gildings 
and faded colorings. 

On my return, familiar places claimed my at- 
tention. Many of thofe whom I had known 
and loved were dead, and many changes marked 
the town of my birth. I turned from them 
all. I was difappointed. Only one place had 
not changed. Only one of thofe old places 
fatiffied me. It was the Univerlity of Virginia. 
There every thing feemed the fame. True, a 
new fet of Profeftors failed the chairs of thofe 
whom I had known, and men with unfamiliar 
faces frequented Rotunda, Porch, Arcade, and 
Lawn. Yet the place itfelf — its walls and its 
groves confecrated to knowledge — was juft as 
I had left it. 

One thought abforbed my attention. It was a 

foolifh 













foolifh notion that would not down, and was 
yet ill-defined. Perhaps, by a mere accident, 
Tome one might have been buried in ftbe Dal* 
le\> Of “Unrest and in a namelefs grave. So it 
was, filled with this almoft belief, that I deter- 
mined to go and fee for myfelf. 

But to find that lonely dell far up in the wood- 
ed heart of the Ragged Mountains was not an 
eafy talk. 

While a ftudent I had often rambled over the 
Univerfity Range of Mountains. I had often 
gathered flowers and ferns from the fcattered 
ruins of the old Obfervatory. (b) I had often 
flood on the fummit of Lewis Mountain and 
looked down upon the Pantheon - modeled 
Dome of the old Rotunda. I had often 
watched the afternoon funlight flowly creep- 
ing beneath the Arcades of Range and Lawn. 
And I had often looked down upon the town 
of Charlottefville, with glittering fpire and 
gleaming roof, foftened into a fuggeftion of 
fomething pi&urefque by diflance and fun- 
fhine. But I had never but that once — thofe 

three 


( b ) glow a new ttnb ficauftfnf {|>fiser»afou) sfan&s on flje ofb site. 











three days of hiding — explored the Ragged 
Mountains. From the time that I firft faw 
them, looking then as they always did, the em- 
bodiment of denfe and fomber lonelinefs, they 
had for me a charm. This charm was en- 
hanced by our felf-impofed banifhment and 
the tale told by Edgar Allan Poe on that 
fpring-time night beneath the fhadows of thofe 
low-fweeping pines and in the glare of torch 
and camp-fire. 

That memory, after all of thofe years, had 
brought me again within the reach of Zbe 
Dalles of Tllnrest. 

It was in the fpring-time. And it was early 
one bright morning when I ftarted up the 
mountain -fide to find again that beautiful 
dell. But in vain I wandered up and down the 
length and the breadth of the Ragged Mount- 
ains. The old path was overgrown and forgot- 
ten. I was wearied with much and fruitlefs 
fearching. I ftretched out beneath a huge 
pine, on a bed of dry mofs, and clofed my eyes, 
but not in dumber. A bunch of new-blown 
lilies growing on a namelefs grave was my one 

and 


















and troubled thought. It was about the hour 
of noon. Suddenly I grew confcious that fome 
one was near, looking down into my face, 
ftudying its features. It was that peculiar and 
unmiftakable feeling of a nearnefs to a human 
being. Out of mere perverfenefs I remained 
ftill and as if afleep. My ear, on the alert for 
the flighteft found, caught the better part of 
thefe fentences: “Yes, yes, I am fure he is one 
of their number. True, he is greatly changed; 
but in fpite of his long white hair and his heav- 
ily bearded face, I know him.” 

Breaking away from the capricious control of 
that perverfe fpirit, I arofe, and ftood before a 
man as old, if not older than myfelf. He was 
a tall, angular, raw-boned mountaineer. His 
manner was calm, colle&ed. His eye was 
bright and full of the fires of life, not yet 
burned out by the hoary encroachments of 
many years. 

“Stranger,” faid he, in a voice fomewhat low, 
and full of earneftnefs, “I have feen you be- 
fore. But you have never feen me. You were 
about thefe parts now nigh on to fifty years 

ago. 



ago. You were with a crowd of ftudents from 
the Univerfity who came hither to hide from 
the county fheriff. Now come, ftranger, and 
behold the fulfillment of a ftrange prediction 
that you and I and all the reft of us heard on 
the third and laft night of your ftay in the Rag- 
ged Mountains.” 

I had no anfwer. I was full of ill-concealed 
wonder. In filence I followed the man who 
had juft fpoken. We penetrated deep into the 
denfe gloom of the foreft. We neared an open 
fpot. It was a lonely dell, and I was fure that 
once again, after all the years, I ftood within 
the fhadows of that Valley of Unreft. 

Inftantly came to mind thofe words placed in 
the mouth of Bedloe, in Edgar Allan Poe’s 
“Tale of the Ragged Mountains”: “The fcen- 
ery which prefented itfelf on all fides had about 
it an indefcribable and to me a delicious afpeCt 
of dreary defolation. The folitude feemed ab- 
folutely virgin. I could not help believing that 
the green fods and the gray rocks upon which 
I trod had been trodden never before by the 
foot of human being.” 


“Do 











% 


I 










# 






s 











“Do you remember,” faid the old man, “the 
tale that was told to us on that laft fpring-time 
night? See,” and in the fame tone, low and 
earneft, he repeated thofe familiar lines — 

“Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave ” 

Slowly I turned, as he pointed, toward the cen- 
ter of the dell, and there my eyes faftened upon 
a green mound of earth, grave-fhaped, without 
a ftone, only a bunch of lilies at the head, 
juft coming into bloom. In truth, I had 
found it, and there it was before me, the 
namelefs grave . 

HERE, feated beneath the fame low-fweep- 



I ing pines that had fheltered our party nearly 
fifty years before, and within fight of that 
grave - mound crowned with its early fpring 
lilies, I liftened to the plain and ftraightfor- 
ward ftory of that ancient mountaineer, Gafper 
Conrad: 

“Five miles from this place, juft on the other 
fide of the mountain-top, I was born. Dur- 


ing 




























ing the early years of my life I was a wood- 
cutter, full of ignorance and ftupid happinefs. 
Three times a week I hauled a load of wood 
into Charlottefville. And that was all. It was 
my life. One morning about this time of the 
year I was chopping wood, juft over yonder to 
the left of this fpot. I heard a voice, loud, 
and then low. I refted on my ax and liftened. 
In thofe days it was a rare thing to fee or hear 
any body but our neighbors, rough, ignorant 
mountain people like myfelf. I came over this 
way and looked in through the wild under- 
growth of the mountain. I faw a young man 
about eighteen or twenty years old walking rap- 
idly up and down the open lpace. He walked 
in a hurried, jerky manner, repeating words 
clearly and diftin&ly, but words that I could 
not then underftand. I was rooted to the 
fpot. My morning work was entirely forgot- 
ten. My heart while I liftened feemed to beat 
with a new life, and I feemed to hear a prom- 
ife of better things. Suddenly he wheeled 
about and quickly difappeared. After that he 
often came, and always alone; frequently fev- 

eral 


eral times a week. I always managed to be 
near by. There was in the mere found of his 
voice a new charm to me. It was a charm that 
I could not rehft. One day, bold with a defire 
to hear every word, I ventured too near. He 
faw me. My eagernefs and my delight gained 
for me a ready forgivenefs, and it gained for 
me fomething befides — his deep and generous 
intereft. For to him I owe all of the little 
knowledge that I now poffefs. From that time 
on, which was early in the fpring, until late in 
the following December, he came almoft daily 
to this lonely valley up here in the mountains. 
Each time he would bring a bundle of books 
for me to read. Each time he would patiently 
explain away that which I did not under- 
ftand and gladly remove every difficulty. This 
opened up to me a new life full of hitherto 
unknown riches. My chief delight was to lis- 
ten while he read poetry and ftories which he 
had juft written, often the very night before. 
I never knew his name. Once I afked him. 
He faid for his anfwer that he was a Univerfity 
ftudent, and more than that it was neither 

well 



well nor necefiary for me to know. Each 
time he came alone, except when he brought 
your crowd of young fellows, to find a fafe 
hiding place from the fearch of the county fher- 
iff. That was about the time when I firft knew 
him. I remember each detail of your ftay in 
the mountain. Throughout the day you played 
your cards and drank your peach and honey . 
But with the coming of night you gathered 
around your bright fire, lit your torches, and, 
half laughing, half in earned:, told fuch queer 
things about Witches, Wizards, and Goblins. 
So pafied away your time. It was on the laft 
night that my friend told his ftory — and it was 
the laft one told — of that namelefs grave . Do 
you remember how you were ftartled to your 
feet, in the after-ftillnefs, when the ftory was 
ended? Do you remember the found of re- 
treating footfteps on the outer edge of your 
company? They were mine. I had been 
concealed in the tangled undergrowth. I had 
heard the ftory. He alone, as he told his now 
prophetic tale, difcovered me in my place of 
hiding. You know how well he ufed my hafty 

retreat 



retreat to make you feel , even if you did not 
believe , that it was the departure of his laft 
Demon. He came here for the laft time on a 
raw December day. He bade me a tender, re- 
luctant farewell. ‘On the morrow,’ he faid, 
‘I leave forever this haunt of my youth. I 
will have no defire again to return. Solemnly, 
faithfully promife that you will not leave the 
mountains, and go down into that Valley of 
Human Wretchednefs, that world about which 
you have read fo much. Heaven knows it 
muft be far better to read about it — aye, to 
even think and dream about it — than it is to 
know it, and, alas! to love it, as I do. Stay 
here always. Do what good you may among 
your neighbors. Forget all that which I have 
taught you. Be ignorant; be happy. But 
remember, dear Gafper, fome day,’ he faid, 
pointing to what was then only a clump of 
new lilies in the early bloom, ‘ the clouds above 
will rapidly drift, unmoved by any wind, 

“Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave? ’ 


“Ah, 


“Ah, ftranger, well may you look with won- 
der on that lily-crowned grave. Two people 
have known the manner of its making — my 
good wife and myfelf. But fhe is dead. I 
alone can give report of that grave-maker — 
the maker of his own grave, who lies at laft in 
peace, I truft, beneath the evergreen fod of 
that namelefs grave . 

“In the autumn of 1835, near the clofe of 
day, and in the midft of a frightful ftorm, 
there came about thefe parts a ftranger. He 
was fome fifty-five or fix years of age. He 
fought fhelter beneath my roof. He ex- 
preffed to me while there the intention of 
building a fmall hut in which he intended to 
pafs the winter. I liked the man. I liked his 
manner and his talk. So I tried to prevail 
upon him to live with us — fhare our poor quar- 
ters — becaufe I knew they were far better than 
any he could provide for himfelf. He was 
kindly difpofed toward me from the ftart. But 
he refufed abfolutely to have any thing to do 
with my neighbors. He would not accept from 
them a fingle offer of affiftance, and would not 


even 


















even anfwer their queftions. He was firft re- 
garded by the mountain people as a rough, furly 
fellow, and finally he was held in abfolute 
dread — this partly on account of his manner 
toward them, and partly on account of his 
ftrange, uncouth appearance. He wore a great 
heavy beard, and his long, coarfe, gray hair 
was always in a mafs of ugly tangles. He was 
known by the fomewhat appropriate name of 
Old Shaggy. The bare mention of his name 
was all-fufficient to quiet the noify child or 
make the older and unruly ones creep off to 
their beds of ftraw in the low-fwinging loft. 
Old women by the firefide told many a ftory 
of midnight murder and broad, open daylight 
crime. Old Shaggy was faid to be, in each in- 
ftance, the murderer or the criminal. If a 
child died fuddenly, it was fupposed that the 
curfe of Old Shaggy refted on its little head. 
Even the death of our beafts of burden, our 
oxen and our few horfes, was laid at the door 
of Old Shaggy. He was the terror of all this 
country fide for twenty miles around. My con- 
tinued intimacy with the man coft me the love 

and 



and the good will of many of thefe honeft peo- 
ple. They believed that he was an Evil Spirit 
in flelli and blood, fent to torture the few in- 
habitants of the Ragged Mountains for fome 
wrong-doing, the nature of which they did not 
know. When I palled among them they would 
draw aiide, and, whifpering, point after me: 
‘Gafper Conrad, poor fellow; Old Shaggy has 
forely bewitched him, and his wife too. We 
’uns will have nothin’ mo’ to do wid ’em.’ 
They faithfully kept their word for many years, 
even after Old Shaggy had myfterioufly difap- 
peared from among them. To this day there 
is not one, even thofe of a new generation, no 
matter how brave, who will draw near this fatal 
place c For yonder, on the edge of this clear- 
ing, ufed to ftand the little hut of Old Shaggy 0 
“He was a man of much information. He 
had rubbed up againft the world and gotten 
from it much that was good and more that was 
bad. Yet it was all of the moft intenfe inters 
eft, both the good and the bad. He had been 
every where, in every known part of the world= 
He once told me that he had been a fteady 

traveler 



traveler for about twenty years; that he did 
not remain long in any one place; and that 
now, weary of the life, he had returned here 
in order that he might die not far away from 
the place of his birth. For he faid that he was 
born fomewhere in Albemarle County, near 
the little town of Milton; that he was of a 
good family, always wayward, latterly profligate. 
His people thought him dead years before, 
killed in a drunken brawl; fo they were told. 
He did not care for them to think otherwife, 
for he was indeed worfe than dead to them. 

“ He parted from me one night with thefe 
words : £ And furthermore, dear Gafper, I know 
to the day, and even to the hour, the time ap- 
pointed for my death. Years ago I determined 
that my grave fhould be in fome unfrequented 
dell in the Ragged Mountains. For I love their 
lonely hollows and their wooded peaks. Here- 
abouts I have fo often wandered in the days of 
my boyhood with dog and gun. Some day I 
will fleep in peace beneath its perpetual fhad- 
ows, and in a grave that fhall be forever name- 
lefs: 


“Thofe 



“Thofe words filled my foul with terror. Back 
with a new force and a new meaning came 
the lines — 

‘Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave' 

But I was filent. My emotion did not betray 
me. After that he more frequently fpoke of 
himfelf and of his eventful life. Yet he never 
told me any thing of his adual hiftory. That 
he was filled with a remorfe of fome kind for 
fome crime or wrong-doing, I am fure. It 
feemed to be a remorfe unfatiffied, relentlefs. 

“A fhort while before his death he told me 
that he had been with Aaron Burr during his 
famous expedition, and that Burr was a bril- 
liant man, fafcinating, powerful, and that he 
had been the indired caufe of the one great 
evil in his miferable life 0 Somehow, ftranger, 
I have always thought that evil was a foul but 
unintentional murder. I have gathered the 
idea more from the manner of Old Shaggy 
than from his guarded words. 

“ It was after dark, on the night of September 
14, 1836. There was a loud knock at my 

door. 



door. Old Shaggy ftood outfide in the dark- 
nefs; he refufed to come in. ‘No, no,’ he faid; 
‘there is not a moment to lofe; every thing 
is ready; come, and come quickly!’ I made 
a frefh torch, and followed after his rapid ftrides 
into the lonely valley. I felt that I was with a 
madman. I made no queftion. I was alone 
with Old Shaggy and with the Silence and the 
Shadows. By the light of the torch I difcov- 
ered that he had torn down his hut, and cut 
the rough boards into fhort pieces, and placed 
them in a regular pile on the edge of an open 
grave. ‘Made with my own hands,’ he faid. 
It was ten or twelve feet deep, and there was 
in the broad bottom a rough-made coffin; an 
ill-ffiaped lid near by on the outiide. Without 
any emotion in either his manner or his voice, 
he turned to me and faid: ‘It is about over 
now, this ugly dream called life. I am grate- 
ful to you for all your kindnefs. Do not let 
it fail me now, when I need it the moft and for 
the laft time.’ Speechlefs, powerlefs, I ftood 
by his fide. He turned away and flipped down 
into the grave. He deliberately placed himfelf 


in 



in the coffin which he had made. He clofed his 
eyes. He folded his ftrong arms acrofs his great 
breaft. One moment thus. Then he fprang 
up into a fitting pofture, and in a loud voice, 
full of pitiful entreaty, exclaimed: ‘Do n’t! 
don’t! I am Albert Pike Carr F He fell back 
into the coffin exhaufted, as I thought, after 
this ftrange and unufual excitement. But it 
was the exhauftion that only death itfelf can 
bring. 

“I made new torches, and worked until the 
early dawn and afterward. The funlight found 
the valley juft as it ufed to be before the com- 
ing of Old Shaggy. For I had buried every 
thing with him, even the rough boards of his 
hut. Nothing remained. 

“ But here in the center was the grave. And it 
was then, and even now is, as our friend pre- 
dicted, and as Old Shaggy wiffied it to be — 
namelefs . 

a Stranger, you have heard the ftory of that 
mound with its pretty lilies. I have told you 
all that I know about the man who lies be- 
neath. I do not think his name was Albert 

Pike 



Pike Carr . That muft have been the name of 
the man he murdered. And Old Shaggy died 
with the fame words on his own lips that formed 
the death-cry of his vi&im — ‘Don’t! don’t! 
I am Albert Pike Carr /’” 

The old man’s ftory was ended. He was weary 
and out of breath. Yet he was full of nervous 
excitement. “Look!” and he feized my hand; 
“there is not a breath of wind, yet the trees 
are trembling as if in a ftorm, and the clouds 
overhead rufh madly through the heavens 

‘Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave? ” 

I left the old man ftanding by that lonely grave 
in that lonely dell. I reluctantly palfed down 
the mountain-fide. The evening wind, new 
rifen, from out of thofe low-fweeping and 
mournful pines, made echo — laughing, mock- 
ing echo — “ namelefs grave , namelefs graveP 





























HEREAFTER, a ffiort time, and while ftill 


I at the Univerfity, a bundle of old family 
letters was placed at my difpofal. They were 
written by a Virginia woman. She was the 
rareft wit of her day. I had known and liked 
her while a ftudent. So each letter was to me 
full of intereft; each page brought back a 
memory. Several fentences in a letter to her 
brother, a prominent Richmond lawyer, in- 
ftantly attracted my attention. This was the 
excerpt : 

“By the way, have you heard the lateft news? 
I am told that one of the Carrs — Albert, I 
think; at all events, the one inclined to be 
wild, and who is a lover of the venturefome — 
has run away from home, and in company with 
a dijfolute companion gone to join that dreadful 
expedition of Col. Aaron Burr. The name of 
his comrade is unknown.” 

That was all — a mere dainty bit of a fair maid- 
en’s goffip. But it is enough to furnifh the 
miffing point in that ftory of the namelefs grave . 
Now, given a number of fads, and a certain 
conclufion is inevitable. With the fads already 


brought 



brought forth, this is my theory — my conclu- 
hon : 

Young Carr and his dijfolute companion together 
go forth to join the expedition of the brilliant 
Burr. One of their number weakens in his 
devotion. Something muft be done. Burr 
fends for this dijfolute companion . “He will 
be on duty near the marfh to-night; do it 
quickly! do it well!” faid Col. Burr. But the 
iides of a tent, like the walls of a houfe, have 
ears. Somebody crouching near, loft in the 
darkness. 

“I am fick to-night; take my place on duty 
near the marfh; won’t you, pleafe?” faid a fol- 
dier to young Carr. And “I will” was the 
brief and generous anfwer. 

Later on, a man hurries acrofs the corner of 
the marfh and goes far beyond the camp. He 
is a deferter, and he has made good his efcape. 
Brave young Carr hands watchful duty in his 
place near the marjh . A footftep. “Who goes 
there?” cries out the valiant Carr. A fharp 
fword-thruft from behind. He turns, recog- 
nizes the man he loves, and, confcious that it 

is the 






















is the refult of fome cruel miftake, quickly ex- 
claims: “Don’t! don’t! I am Albert Pike 
Carr /” 

But the recognition and words are too late. 
The moon had rifen, but her tardy light was a 
mockery. 

Years of remorfe and conftant wandering. The 
dijfolute companion returns once again to his na- 
tive place. By a curious coincidence he falls 
upon a dell, almoft inacceffible, far up into the 
heart of the Ragged Mountains — fTbe ‘lHaUe\> of 
^Unrest. He reaches the fpot in the midft of a 
frightful ftorm, and he does not again leave the 
place. But with the Ikill and cunning of a 
madman he brings his life to a clofe by poifon, 
or like means, on that 14th day of September, 
1836 — the deathday of Aaron Burr — another 
curious coincidence or ftrange fatality. Which ? 

It is not more than palling ftrange that a 
man run mad by the thought of a crime com- 
mitted, double in its nature, fhould determine 
to end his life in fome one particular fpot and 
in fome one particular way. Any clever mad- 
man might have brought about a death and a 

burial 





burial juft as unique in its character. This fig- 
nifies nothing. Yet it does feem ftrange indeed 
to find him in that one particular fpot above all 
others — £be U)alle\> of 'Iflnrest. And ftranger (till, 
that he fiiould have fo ftrongly defired what 
is actually the cafe, and that which had been 
predicted by Edgar Allan Poe — a namelefs 
grave . That he fhould chance to die on the 
fame day, perhaps the very fame hour, with 
Aaron Burr, who was the caufe of his lifelong 
remorfe — the cold-blooded inftigator of his 
crime — is, in truth, a remarkable element in 
this tangle of human deftinies. Unnatural and 
moft improbable founds the entire ftory. If 
true, it is — of courfe by accident — the perfect 
fulfillment of a moft peculiar prediction. If 
not true — only the garrulous mutterings of old 
age — then it is a curious, clofe-woven line of 
unaccountable things. But it is the plain and 
fimple truth, this ftory as told by Gafper Con- 
rad, the honeft mountaineer. 

Now this much I know to be a faCt and 
beyond all doubt: There is in the Ragged 
Mountains of Virginia a certain lonely dell 

which 


















which does contain the grave of fome man 
whofe name is unknown. The mountaineers 
thereabout know by tradition the prefence of 
that grave; confequently no power on earth 
can induce any one of them to enter that dell. 
And they know — alfo by tradition — the ftory 
of Old Shaggy, but not of his death and the 
ftrange manner thereof. 

I alfo know it to be a fad:, becaufe told to me 
by Poe himfelf, that he conftantly frequented 
that dell in the Ragged Mountains. I know 
that it was there that he guided us into a fafe 
retreat from the purfuit of the county fheriff, 
and it was there I heard the ftory of the name- 
lefs grave , and it was there I heard him flowly, 
diftindly repeat thofe lines, 

“Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave ” — 

not once only, but twice; at the opening and 
at the clofe of his myfterious prophetic tale. 
This — both the ftory and the lines — muft have 
been heard by Gafper Conrad. How elfe could 
he have caught the oft-repeated refrain? 

That Edgar Allan Poe muft furely have meant 

this 












this lonely dell when he wrote fTbe Dailey of 
'Ulnrest, needs no proof. Read the Poem. It 
makes moft excellent anfwer to any denial, no 
matter how idle or how earned: it may chance 
to be. 

A FTER reading thofe words in the old let- 
ter of that dead Beauty-Wit, I determined 
to go back into ftbe Dailey of TUnrcsf find Gaf- 
per Conrad, and queftion him more clofely. 
Now, one Bifhop keeps a little grocery and 
notion -ftore near the Univerfity Poft-office, 
and there I had occafion to ftop on my way 
out to the mountains, and overheard this con- 
verfation, which made my intention ufelefs: 
“So you fay old Gafper Conrad is dead, do 
you?” I heard fome one exclaim, and then 
add, “When did he die?” 

“Night ’fore laft,” anfwered a gruff, rough- 
looking fellow. He was evidently one of the 
Ragged Mountain people. There was a long, 
rufty piece of limp crape hanging on his left 
arm. It bore the figns of frequent ufe. 

A man idling near the door, leaning againft 


an 























an empty box, whittling a ftick, faid in a lazy, 
drawling tone, “ Is that the fame old fellow was 
all the time atfling curiouf-like, and talking 
about graves and lilies, or fome kind of flowers 
growing fomewhere up there on the mount- 
ains?” 

“The very fame ’un,” fhortly anfwered the 
mountaineer, and then he ftrode out of the 
ftore and out of fight, with his heavy, ftupid 
face turned toward his humble home. 

“H e was the old man’s nevy, he was,” faid a 
melancholy byftander. 

Dr. McKennie, who keeps the Univerfity Book- 
ftore,(c) eftablifhed during my time by his ex- 
cellent father, told me that he had for many 
years known and refpe&ed this rather remark- 
able mountaineer, Gafper Conrad. To ufe the 
words of the good Doctor: “He was honeft, 
quiet, fenflble; but to me a continual furprife. 
He had cultivated not only a tafte, but an ac- 
tual thirft for reading, and of a certain kind — 
always books of travel and adventure. 

(c)gfje 'glnioetsiftj ^ooftsfore is now in ofljer fjanbs. $nf 3>r. '§8c<&. is 
sfiff fining. <ftis abbrcss— IJlninersifi? of Virginia, ilC0cmarfe go., ^?a. 

Filled 



























F ILLED with a defire to give a glimpfe of 
Edgar Allan Poe, his inner life, while a ftu- 
dent at the Virginia Univerfity, I have unre- 
fervedly written that which has gone before. I 
do not know into whofe hands it may fall. I do 
not know if the great world will ever hear the 
burden of my fong. Yet it was on my heart 
to write, and I have written. I have added 
fomething — if only a little fomething — to the 
much which has been faid and written about 
this my Myfterious Human Fantafy. That 
much I may have done, and fomething elfe. 
I have fhown the curious juxtapofition of cir- 
cumftances bringing about the complete fulfill- 
ment of a prediction made in a moment of 
midnight revel in the heart of the Ragged 
Mountains and by Edgar Allan Poe. It has 
about it at leaft the coloring, the ftrong color- 
ing of a perfected prophecy. 

Now the talk of the night is finifhed, and the 
night has gone. Again, far down the turn of 
the road I hear the mufical ring of jingling 
fleigh-bells, which hours ago rang up the mem- 
ory of that Myfterious Human Fantafy, like 

unto 

























unto the Witch of Endor bringing back a dead 
Samuel to a living and troubled Saul. Again, 
I hear the gladfome found of merry voices — 
that fame gay party which I heard fo early in 
the night, returning now, at the break of an- 
other winter day, from the country dance. 
They are gone. 

Again, I lean out of the fquare hole under the 
deep, flanting eaves. 

The cold gray lights creep into my den of Old 
Oddities. 

They chill my heart. 

The fnow-ftorm is over. 

The fun will fhine to-day. 

But will it bring brightnefs and warmth into 
my life? 

Again, and from out of the cold, mifty depths 
of the early dawn rifes before me that Myfte- 
rious Human Fantafy. 

It floats away with the dark humors of the 
night. 

It teaches the firft riflng wind of this new-born 
day to whifper, 

“Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a namelefs grave? 






























1 «* 






































































































